


Close Encounters

by wormmunist



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon typical body horror, Canon-Typical The Spiral Content (The Magnus Archives), Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, It/Its Pronouns For Michael | The Distortion (The Magnus Archives), Jon Has A Cane, POV Original Character, mostly to describe michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:50:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26940157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormmunist/pseuds/wormmunist
Summary: Michael the Distortion appears three times to Ainsel - but its impact on them is undeniable.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Close Encounters

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in.... mid-April? I stopped listening to TMA after the S3 finale but I got really invested in Ainsel because... i have issues. not expecting anyone to read this but if you like it then wahoo!

For their seventh birthday, Ainsel was given a pair of shorts and two toy race cars, barely the size of their hand. It was for this reason that they decide, in all their childish bravado, to wander past their neighbor’s field of dry, dead corn towards the treeline that starts behind it. Dead corn is always a nuisance to navigate; the other children avoid it, Ainsel’s parents tell them not to go into it, but they don't see cause for fear of the fields. Corn, dead corn specifically, is very loud in a soothing way. The dry husks brush against each other in a way that drowns every other sound out. Looking up shows nothing but the same shriveled stalks reaching for the sun. The corn is twice as tall as Ainsel. Logically, they would get lost almost immediately, but something about the maize is easy for them to understand. They make it to the treeline in minutes. The woods are sparse, gnarled, and gray. Silence lays thickly upon the empty earth separating the known and unknown.

Ainsel is not a dull child. Ainsel is cautious, inquisitive, but above all else, naive. They cross the barrier. The change is not initially seen - the gray bark of the trees is subtle, swirling, and rough against their small hands. But eventually, it becomes softer. The deeper they blaze into the woods, the brighter the saturation of the world around them becomes. Small mushrooms dot the floor. Fallen logs blanketed in vibrant moss mark their way, and despite the lack of a path, the long shiny grass seems to be flattened in the direction they follow.

  
The sun has been long forgotten above the canopy of spiraling branches that both lack and imitate leaves. But the forest is quiet, and Ainsel notices this, having lived in the midwest for long enough to know that a forest is not a forest without its inhabitants. There are no bullfrogs, no woodpeckers, not a mourning dove to be heard. The branches above do not shake with the squirrels and birds that should be there. They stop, leaning against the trunk of a large ash tree, breathing slowly. They look back and realize they can’t see the corn field anymore. Strangely, this does not bother them. Looking forwards, they see a shadow on the horizon, partially obscured by the silhouettes of the trees. Ainsel squints and trudges forward.

  
It is a person. It is sitting, back to Ainsel, on a tree stump in the middle of a small clearing. The child stumbles into this clearing, watching their feet more than their hands, and notices the ring of tan and white mushrooms running in a circle around this tree stump. The person tilts its head and looks over its shoulder. It has a long, slender face framed by curling locks of shiny blond hair. Ainsel would call it beautiful if not for its hauntingly large eyes. The person turns around on its wooden throne and smiles at them. It has a chillingly wrong look about it.

  
“Hello, little bird. Are you lost?” It whistles, still smiling. Ainsel is disturbed by its behavior. They shake their head. Something in their stomach is begging them to leave, but the stranger has an air about it that begs them to stay for just a little while longer. The child balls their hands into fists, nails digging into their palms. The figure’s eyes dart to this.

  
“So young for such a bad habit, hm?” It asks, pointing with one long finger to their hands. Ainsel blushes and hides them behind their back, looking away. The person laughs at this.

  
“No need to be ashamed. Come here, let me see.” It says, and Ainsel takes a step forward, stopping as they cross the line of mushrooms and holding out their hands. The stranger rises languidly, snake-like hair casting a shadow over the child. It takes their palms in one of its own and Ainsel is surprised by just how large its hands are. Its nails look sharp, almost like claws, as it holds both of their hands in a sandwich. It stoops over and looks into their eyes. Ainsel blinks.

  
“You’re not new to this, are you?” It says, more of a statement than a question, looking down at their hands again. They shake their head no. It mutters indistinctly as it draws a spiral above the backs of their hands, claws clicking together with the movement.

  
“You’re an awfully quiet child. What’s your name?” It asks, still looking at their hands. Ainsel realizes how tall the stranger is. They only come up to its hips. It has to bend over to hold their hands, and its canopy of blond curls above them fans out like a blanket.

  
“No name, hm?” It teases. Ainsel nods solemnly. The stranger laughs again in a dizzying way and lets go of their hands. When they look at their palms, all the little red scabs they’d made over the course of a few weeks have vanished, left only with light scars. For the first time in a long time, they smile up at their new friend. It chuckles softly and gives them a pat on the head, standing up straight once more.

  
“Go home, little bird.” It whispers, grin a little lopsided, and points from the direction they came from. At once, the trees seem to part, and they can see the corn field again, waving slightly in the wind. Ainsel heads home.

  
...

  
Ainsel’s job works like this: Elias talks to them in the morning and gives them a stack of cases that he wants them to look into specifically. Jon waves them over to a file cabinet that could be better organized. Ainsel labels the statements with sticky notes based on the biggest factors inside: being lost and alone in big places goes in one compartment, being chased by something goes in the next, being crushed or suffocated goes in the next. It’s cathartic work. They sit down on the wood floor and empty out a file cabinet, reading and labeling, stacking and reordering papers for hours upon hours, long after the Archivist goes home and the lights go out. A single cabinet can take them days to finish.

  
Even though he doesn’t say it, Ainsel gets the feeling Jon appreciates their help in fixing Gertrude’s mess of an archive. They feel safe here, sitting cross legged on the worn floor, repurposed tool shelves holding thousands of documents towering high above them, file cabinets lining the walls. The fluorescent light bulbs that hang inches off the ceiling buzz softly, the machinery of the basement whirrs. During the day Jon records statements and scribbles into his notebook and the white noise sings them to comfort. It’s calming work.

  
They’re reading a statement that Elias gave them. It’s written oddly, he said, but Ainsel understands it. The author speaks about the eyes in the windows of cars and the people watching them from the moon at night, and Ainsel licks their thumb before flipping the page over, nodding along with the statement. They’ve long abandoned their oversized bomber jacket and are using it as a cushion, scrunching their fingers into the worn fabric and kneading it slowly as they turn to the next page of the document.

  
The lights above them flicker for a split second and they hear the shrill creak of a door opening to the front of the office, directly followed by Jon’s chair scraping the ground as he stands up. They put the statement in their lap and lower their head to peek through the crowded shelves. They are directly behind the Archivist, his green sweater and gray-black hair obscuring the figure in the doorway. Jon is speaking harshly, using the desk as his crutch while standing. His voice is insistent but there is a slight quiver to it.

  
“No, I don’t think I will.” Comes the reply to the Archivist’s barks. It is a funny voice. Ainsel feels it grate against the roof of their mouth like sandpaper. They shift to the side, curious, and catch a glimpse of long, curling blond hair waving as if underwater.

  
“Say, I don’t think you’re alone here, Archivist. Do you have a little bird staying with you?” The voice says, inquisitive, and Jon immediately grabs his cane and points it at the perpetrator, now leaning fully on the desk. He shouts something defensively. Ainsel cannot hear it for the static between their ears. They have the feeling that they are in danger. They sit completely still, watching Jon try to block the figure from moving around his desk and into the archives behind him. The tall shelves block Ainsel’s view of the face, but they quietly shuffle on the floor, putting down the statements and kneeling, getting ready to bolt if needed. The figure makes a sound that could be described as a laugh, and raises one long, spindly finger inches from Jon’s face. Ainsel hears him gasp, no doubt frightened.

  
“I just want to meet your new friend, Archivist. No need to get upset.” It explains, laughing, and Ainsel stands up, becoming hyperaware of their position in the very back of the room, surrounded by sightlines on all sides. The figure begins walking down the aisle to Ainsel’s right, humming. They watch as Jon whips his head between the intruder and the door, and finally makes eye contact with them through a narrow slit in the shelves. He looks terrified. Ainsel swallows and backs away, catching glimpses of the figure through the unfilled slots in the shelves. Its hair billows outwards like seagrass.

  
It is close now, and the static begins to fill Ainsel’s vision as they try desperately to stay quiet while sliding to the left, attempting to escape from the figure’s sight. Just as the figure rounds the corner, Ainsel slips around the last shelf, holding their breath as they hear the slow, deliberate footfalls behind them. Jon snaps out of his fear and shouts for ‘Michael’ to stop harassing his intern. Ainsel feels a brief flare of warmth in their chest at the prospect of being cared for before the footsteps stop in the middle of the shelf. Blinding panic surges in their throat as they feel a thin hand grasp at the collar of their sweater. They choke out a cry of fear, twisting in its grasp, but the creature smiles at them through the gaps between the shelves.

  
“Calm down, little bird. Don’t you recognize me?” It holds them there by the scruff of their shirt as Ainsel stares it in the face, panting. Its eyes are too wide. Its smile hangs off the side of its skin. Its teeth are irregular and large. Ainsel furrows their brow and cocks their head, leaning closer. They remember with a start.  
“You.” They breathe, and the monster lets them go, unthreading its claws from the shelves and rounding the corner with a single step.  
“Me.” It says, amused, and Ainsel hears Jon rush to the back of the room, coming up behind them but staying meters away.

  
“Ainsel, come here right now. Come here.” He says, almost pleading, but Ainsel breathes slowly and looks up at the creature, unresponsive. They raise a hand up to it, as if pressing it against an invisible glass pane. The monster smiles and returns the gesture. Its hand is much larger than Ainsel’s, clawed and contorted with too many joints and too many fingers.

  
“Ainsel! Don’t touch him! He’s dangerous!” Jon stutters, banging his cane on the floor in a vain effort for their attention.

  
“I thought I dreamt you.” Ainsel whispers, watching their vision distort around its fingers as they press together. It laughs. It’s wearing what it was so long ago: a dark turtleneck, tight jeans, and a scarf wrapped twice around its shoulders. It has those same black winter boots on despite the season. Its hair has only gotten longer with time, falling to its hips but floating outwards like a halo. The room bends around it like the lens of a fisheye camera. Ainsel feels the pull, like the event horizon of a black hole.

  
“Careful, little bird. Don’t ruin these statements. Your watchers would be quite upset.” It nudges them with one hand and breaks the spell. Ainsel sees the wood beneath them had begun to form knots and spirals, the shelving around them warping as well. They get the feeling that if they had stood there any longer, the papers stored there would all be incomprehensible. They hear Jon’s ragged breathing behind them and stumble backwards into his outstretched arm, feeling his fingers close around their upper arm in a protective curl. He shakes a little bit as he pulls them closer to him.

  
“Are you done here, Michael? Just wanted to badger my intern?” Jon spits. Ainsel looks down at him and back at the creature. It taps its chin, thinking, before showing another ear splitting smile.

  
“Yes, I’ll leave you for now.” It agrees, nodding, and turns around. Ainsel sees a deep yellow door conjured behind it that somehow rests on top of the file cabinets. When it looks over its shoulder, its spiralling eyes meet Ainsel’s one last time.

  
“It was good to see you again.” It says, almost sadly, before stepping through the door and vanishing altogether. Jon turns to look at Ainsel, eyes narrowed to dark slits. The child shrinks at this, but is held in place by his arm and his stare.

  
“How do you know him?” He asks, softer than they would have expected, and unwinds from them, allowing them to slink backwards and wring their hands together nervously. They look down at the floor. Jon sighs and walks back to his desk, Ainsel trailing behind him and sitting down in front of him, knowing the next logical step in this situation. Jon cocks his head towards the tape recorder sitting next to his hand, as if to ask them permission. The child nods and he pushes the large red ‘record’ button. There is a clunk and a whirr and his eyes light up with a mottled green glow.

  
“Statement of Ainsel Doe, regarding how they first met the creature known as Michael. Recorded direct from subject on September 9th, 2017. Statement begins.”

  
...

  
Ainsel, half sane, stumbling on their feet, rights themself on the forested floor beneath them, which warps and swirls and threatens to drop them into the face of the abyss. The grass forms spirals like bird nests. The dew reflects the curling branches above. The child collects themself. They’ve been here before; they distantly remember this place’s unshakably haunting atmosphere. The fibonacci sequence raptures it whole and divides the branches of the trees in patterns like that of a nautilus shell. The petals of the dark flowers follow in sequence. There are no songbirds here. There are no katydids or larks. The land is quiet, echoes the creaking of the trees and the footsteps that wander, lost and unfound. Ainsel is, not for the first time in their life, utterly alone.

  
_I am alone. Did I ever exist?_

  
There are bodies here, in the floor and in the trees. Black carcasses that do not move, that have skin like wood burls, curving in patterns like fungi. Some of them are small. Some of them have faces. Ainsel does not stop for them after they see the third one. There is nothing to be done for them, if they were ever real in the first place. Nothing else is here, and in some way, Ainsel knows the sacredness of that fact. They are alone here, and everyone who was ever here or will be here walk these woods without a soul beside them. Of course, there are shadows in the distance, between the trees there are eyes and fingers. The bark of the birch stares in a way that would be unsettling if paid attention. But the illusions are just that, and after the time has spiraled down the drain, Ainsel knows this, and knows not to look at the horizon for too long.

  
_I am alone. I never existed._

  
The forest does not end. It never began. The forest is not a collection, but rather a singular entity, alive and malicious in the way it curls into itself and expands endlessly. Ainsel treks uphill both ways. It is a space unto itself. It is a vivisection of the mind. There was never an entrance and there was never an exit. All unfortunate enough to find themselves in the woods will die there. It is malicious. When the forest is hungry, every hollow becomes a mouth.

  
There is a shadow between the trees with chillingly wrong eyes and a mouth too wide for its face. Ainsel shivers, looks away, and continues walking. The trees in their line of sight are gripped by clawed fingers with too many joints to be correct. They close their eyes and brace themself against the bark of a tree, which digs into the soft flesh of their palm almost reciprocatively. The forest is no longer silent. As they are still against this tree, the rustle of footfalls is impossible to ignore, deafening in the lack of any other sound. They are supposed to be alone here. The presence of another creature in this space is impossible. And yet, with eyes open, there smiles the countenance of something utterly incorrect in nature.

  
“Hello, little bird.” It whispers, putting one wickedly thin finger to its lips, a warning or an instruction. Its hair reaches in all directions. Its eyes pulse and spin like a whirlpool. Ainsel backs against the tree, but the animal wraps one long hand around their shoulders and nudges them forwards, ripping the skin of the bark that had begun to grow dangerously onto Ainsel’s arms.

  
“Be careful. This place is hungry.” It says quietly, letting go of the child, and they shudder, gripping themself tightly. The way it talks seems to respect the sanctity of the silence. Ainsel looks up into its eyes. It looks back.

  
“You remember me, yes?” It asks, smile altogether too unsettling and sharp for Ainsel’s liking. They nod slowly, looking down at its monstrously contorted hands, which are so long that they brush the ground and entwine with the grass.

  
“You’re not supposed to be here yet, little bird. Let me take you back to your world.” It whispers, extending one hand, expecting Ainsel to take it. Ainsel swallows. The sharp edges of its figure, its endlessly curling hair, its bottomless eyes all betray the corners of reality, even here, in this nightmare of a forest.

  
“You’re fae,” they finally break their silence, “I can’t trust you.” It laughs at this assertion.

  
“You thought you could trust anyone else?” There is a long pause. Ainsel is not convinced. The beast sighs in a way that ripples the air around it.

  
“If I leave, you’ll die here. You have no other option.” Its hand stretches wider. Ainsel weighs the realities laid out for them, and after a moment of hesitation, gingerly places their hand in the palm of the creature. There is no snapping shut the jaws of the beast, no pact signed in blood. There is a gentle rearrangement of limbs and then they are together, a soul and a guide. Ainsel is holding onto its thumb with their whole hand as it sways and floats across the forest floor. The child is physical, must make an effort to climb over fallen logs and duck under branches, but the monster seems to command the living trees and phaze through the debris in its path. Its skin is almost ghostly in quality. The creature notices Ainsel’s wandering gaze.

  
“I died a few days ago.” It states plainly, not looking at them. Ainsel nods, expecting an answer of that kind, and they continue in their pallid company until the beast halts entirely, jarring Ainsel into looking up at its large, glowing eyes.

  
“You are going to die soon, little bird. You are going to become something new.” It whispers, tightening its grip around their hand. Ainsel does not flinch. They blink and look back down to where the animal’s fingers cage their hand in a way that is both gentle and hungry. There is a reason this beast has claws. There is a reason it has canines.

  
“Will it hurt?”

  
“Very much so.”

  
They walk in silence. The forest breathes around the presence of two beings. The monster shifts the path of stumbling feet, bends the woods to its needs, and Ainsel finds they recognize the faces in the tree trunks. They have passed these black, marred bodies once before. Gray cirrus clouds hang overhead in the darkness. They string themselves onto an endless revolver that gathers them to the center of the forest. If only they could follow those clouds. If they could find the center of this cursed place.

  
“Little bird, you’re going to get lost if you let go of me like that.” The voice rings out from behind them, but as they turn, they find nothing there but the horizon and the rough bark of trees. They hear the animal now overhead and do not turn around, closing their eyes and waiting. It places one long, spindly hand on their shoulder, and Ainsel reaches up to grasp a finger, breath catching when they prick themself on its sharp claws. The beast watches as they wipe the blood away and steady their grip. Both of their eyes meet expectantly.

  
“This place is just as alive as you are. Do you think it’s evil for wanting to feed itself?” It asks, tilting its head and exposing its long, pale column of a neck. It expects an answer and is not moving until it gets one. Ainsel furrows their brow.

  
“I don’t think any living creature decides how it stays alive.”

"Good answer."

**Author's Note:**

> i'm wormmunist on tumblr :)


End file.
